


Stone Chimes

by SummerdaySands (IvyMcAllister)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Addiction, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, Male Prostitution, Prostitution, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-07 15:55:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyMcAllister/pseuds/SummerdaySands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Possible "Underage" Warning--This fic contains implied underage, m/m sex, but *only* implied--and it *doesn't* involve Jim or Blair.  There is also the depiction of inappropriate sexual advances made *by* (not toward) a minor, which isn't quite the same thing, but it's still something that some folks would rather be warned about.  </p><p>Now, on to the Summary!  Blair encounters a wayward teenager.  He knows that the boy is trouble (and there's no doubt that he's *in* trouble, too), but Jim is always warning Blair about his tendency to get involved in other people's problems.  Blair tries to heed Jim's advice, but it's just not in his nature to turn his back on someone in need.  (And of course, once Blair gets involved, Jim's involved, too.  Because that's how they roll.  :) </p><p>(If you're worried about the OFCs and OMC, please don't be.  The OFCs only have a couple lines, and it's all business--no funny stuff, I promise!  :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone Chimes

**Author's Note:**

> Additional Warnings (Just in case): Deals with drug abuse and addiction, prostitution (underage), and contains references to implied child molestation. There is also some foul language. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine. They're Pet Fly's toys, but since the Pet Fly guys seem to have outgrown them, I've taken them to play in my *own* sandbox. *grin* No money is being made, and nobody's gonna get any if they sue, either. Can't get blood from a stone, folks!

It was after 10pm and Blair Sandburg was just heading home from Rainier University. Textbook selection time had arrived, and a tower of the darn things teetered perilously in his arms, just waiting to fall. He needed to take them home for the weekend so he'd have more time to go through them, but he hadn't been able to fit them all in his backpack.

Blair stumbled slightly as he struggled to see the ground in front of him.

While he loved the aesthetics of the charming, tree-covered campus, the roots of the trees nearest the sidewalks were pushing up through the cement slabs and creating an obstacle course of cliffs and valleys. Blair was pleased to make it all the way to the faculty parking lot without tripping.

A street lamp flickered and buzzed quietly above him while he stood at the door of his old Volvo, struggling to get out his keys without putting down the books.

_Damn! They're caught on something._

Frustrated, Blair gave one hard tug and felt a *snap!* as the string that had entrapped his keys decided to give them up. Unfortunately, that string was the only thing holding Blair's pocket together. A heap of change dropped down inside his pant leg, clattering, scattering and rolling around the ground at his feet.

Blair sighed. "Brill-fucking-illiant, Sandburg," he muttered to himself. Carefully placing the stack of books on the ground, he dropped to one knee and started gathering up the coins.

He'd been so absorbed in trying to get a quarter out from behind the front wheel that he hadn't heard someone walk up behind him.

"Here," a male voice said quietly. "You missed one."

"Ow!!"

Sandburg, who had crawled halfway under the car in search of a particularly elusive nickel, managed to thwack the back of his head on the Volvo's rusty undercarriage. He got up slowly, rubbing the affected area and checking his hand for blood before turning around to acknowledge the person behind him.

He looked to be about 16--18 at the most--and he was wearing a pair of hard-worn red leather pants. _Well, they had probably been red at one point_ , Blair thought, but time, body oils and grime had turned them a deep, rich burgundy that was *almost* attractive--if you didn't think about the cause. A faded black button-down hung open over a tight, threadbare pink t-shirt that barely skimmed the boy's concave stomach. The shabby clothes seemed right at home on the kid's heroin-thin frame. Dull eyes gazed steadily out from under a shoulder-length mop of unkempt, wavy black hair.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to freak you out." The grunge youth's features twitched into a semblance of a smile that Blair didn't see reflected in the guarded eyes.

"Here." A surprisingly clean black-nailed hand dropped a couple of quarters into Blair's palm.

He watched the quarters fall, the kid's too-short sleeves rising to reveal odd spots of bruising around the thin wrist.

_Needle tracks. Damn._

Blair bit back his impulsive need to comment on it and schooled his features into a smile. "Thanks, man."

"No problem." The kid's lanky frame was tense and Blair noticed the erratic twitching of pale, thin fingers against one burgundy-clad leg.

"What's your name?"

A brief hesitation. "Ian."

Blair was temporarily at a loss for words, and the dull throbbing in his head wasn’t helping. Raising himself slowly to his feet with the help of the conveniently placed Volvo door handle, Blair got his car keys in his hand again and turned to ask Ian if he was a student at Rainier, but the kid was already trudging away across the empty parking lot.

Blair was no fool, and since he'd become Jim's Guide, he'd really learned to trust his instincts. Right now, they were bouncing for attention like popcorn in a tinfoil pan. Something was definitely not right with that kid.

While he slowly loaded the passenger seat with books, Sandburg contemplated the encounter.

Working at the University, he'd seen trends come and go--including grunge. But somehow, he didn't think that it was a 'look' the kid was going for. He'd been just a little *too* grungy.

 _I suppose he *could* be a student_ , Blair mused.

He shook his head slightly, dismissing the notion.

Probably not. He hardly looked old enough. _And since he probably isn't a student_ , Blair's rational mind supplied, _he was probably buying or selling._   Blair knew you found that element around any college campus.  Few students who used the hard stuff graduated, though. The financial requirements were taxing, and their priorities soon shifted to include little else but finding a way to get their next fix.

Still contemplating, Blair hopped in the driver's seat and started for home.

Mmmmmm. "Home." He liked the sound of that. The loft really had become his home. He smiled at the realization, remembering his chagrin when he'd first moved in and Jim had dumped all those "house rules" on him. He hadn't thought he'd last the first week, let alone the two years it had turned into. Blair smiled more broadly as he sorted through those early memories--Jim bellowing his name after stepping into a freezing shower, the look on Jim's face when he'd first seen one of Blair's infamous algae-based protein shakes. Blair was grinning now. It *had* been priceless.

He was so deep in his reverie that he almost didn't notice the skinny, black-haired, black-shirted figure on the sidewalk. That wasn't Ian. . . was it?

Blair paused at the next stop sign, watching the figure in the rearview mirror. He glanced around uncomfortably. Although darkness effectively hid much of the decay, it certainly wasn't a neighborhood where Blair wanted to be hanging around. He frowned as he focussed his attention on the scene behind him.

Ian was talking to a middle aged, trenchcoat-wearing man while leaning languorously against the crumbling brick of an old playground wall. The air was crackling-crisp with chill and the ascendant bodies of spent leaves, but Ian wore no coat.

The man had shifted and was now leaning on the wall, facing Ian--blocking him in while supporting himself with his right arm.

After a brief exchange during which the kid hardly looked up once, a fairly nauseous Blair watched as the older man took Ian's chin with his free hand. He turned Ian's face from side to side slowly. Appraisingly.

As if coming to a decision, he dropped the restraining arm. He backed away and said… something. Blair found himself wishing, once again, that he had Jim's advantages. But he didn't, so the observer simply watched, helpless in his ignorance--watched as Ian nodded, turned and started to walk back up the street, away from the man, away from Blair.

 _Okay_ , Blair thought, lifting his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. _That was weird. Probably a drug deal, or something._   Blair returned his attention to the mirror in time to see the tattered black-gray shirt fading into the shadows. A wrinkle in the fabric of night, he slipped around a corner, dissolving into darkness.

Casting one feral, surreptitious glance over his shoulder, the trench coat followed.

"God." Blair was gaping, speaking aloud. "Did I just see what I think I saw?"

He let his head drop forward onto the steering wheel to rest on his arm. Sighing because he knew he was about to do something he might not live to regret--especially if Jim found out--Blair turned off the engine and got out of the car.

The breeze was chill enough to make him wish he'd worn more layers under his usual red and black check jacket. Pulling the inadequate fabric more tightly around his shoulders, Blair slowed down as he approached the alleyway where they’d both vanished.

He listened.

His heart started to beat faster. The sounds coming from around the corner weren't screaming "drug deal," but they were equally--if not more--unpleasant. He may not have Sentinel senses, but he knew what it sounded like.

It sounded like. . . like. . . Sex.

"Shit." Blair froze when he realized he'd spoken the epithet out loud.

A rush of warmth covered Blair's face. He was blushing furiously. Turning around abruptly, he hurried back to the Volvo.

"It's not your problem, Sandburg," he admonished himself, still speaking out loud. "Not your problem. Not your problem, not your problem. Not. Your. Problem. Just because somebody picks up your pocket change doesn't mean you owe them."

He drove the rest of the way back to the loft in silence, unable to control the nagging feeling of guilt that threatened to overwhelm him.

* * *

Blair heard the television droning away before he even opened the door. *Jim must be dialed down,* he thought with a smile. Once inside, he saw Jim sprawled on the couch, nursing a beer.

"Hey, Chief." Jim smiled a greeting. "How're things at the U?"

"Alright, I guess. I've gotta go back to the car, man. I left a bunch of books out there." Blair didn't want to go into the events of the evening with Jim. Even though he'd _technically_ stayed out of it, Jim would give him a big ol' cop lecture about how dumb and dangerous-- _Don't forget dangerous, Sandburg_.--it had been to have stopped at all.

As he headed back out the door, he heard Jim saying, "No problem. I'll give you hand."

Jim was behind him a second later. Blair could hear the slight frown in his partner's voice. He knew his heart was pounding, and willed it to slow down with some deep breaths.

Jim eyed his roommate suspiciously. "You *sure* nothing's up, Sandburg?"

Blair felt Jim's eyes on him as he walked down the stairs. "Sure, man. Everything's fine." He gave an exaggerated yawn, stretching a bit as he got to the Volvo. "I'm just tired, is all. And I have to be in early tomorrow for some department meeting before classes, so I should really get to bed." He hoped his guilty heartbeat wasn't giving him away.

Jim wasn't satisfied, but he let it go. Sandburg certainly did look tired. And why did he keep rubbing his head like that?

"What's the problem, Chief?" Jim was all concern, now, in the face of Blair's discomfort.

"Whacked my head on the shelves in my office, man. Thought I was gonna pass out for a second there."

Curiosity forgotten, he took the books Blair was carrying and looked appraisingly at his partner. "How do you feel now? Any dizziness? Headache? Let me take a look at it when we go inside, Sandburg. I’ll even make you a cup of some of the dried weeds you call 'tea.'"

Relieved that Jim seemed to have something new to think about, Blair smiled.

"Yeah, my head's been killing me ever since I got in the car." He winced as he rubbed the spot again. "Tea'd be nice, man. Thanks."

The rest of the night passed uneventfully--at least for Blair. Jim fussed over Blair's scalp wound, pouring peroxide on it and scowling as it foamed up. He stayed up long enough to make sure his partner finished the herbal tea, only going to bed himself after Blair expressed a desire for some shut-eye.

Once upstairs, Jim lay in bed listening to Sandburg shuffling around as he got ready for bed. He knew his partner well enough to notice when Blair was avoiding something. Besides, the particles of dirt and rust in the tiny cut sure didn't come from the wooden shelves in Blair's office. When he heard the soft *click* of Blair's desk light being turned off, Jim rolled over and closed his eyes.

Maybe the kid would feel like talking in the morning.

******************************************

The next few days passed with blessed monotony. For the first week after his experiment in voyeurism, Blair drove home at that same time each night in the hope of catching a glimpse of Ian. There had been nothing on the news about a dead, young male prostitute, and his not-so-subtle inquiries to the Vice cops all came up blank.

By the following Friday, he decided to let it go. _The kid had probably headed to Seattle,_ he told himself, _where the smack is plentiful and there're more flop houses, shelters and needle exchanges. Cascade really needs to get on the bandwagon, there…_

Blair knew Jim would be pleased that he'd managed to keep his altruistic instincts under control--after all, Jim was always telling him that you couldn't save them all. Blair had tried to harden his heart, but those discussions always reminded him of an email forward that was passed around every so often--a story about a man throwing stranded starfish back into the ocean. A bystander told the man he was wasting his time--that he couldn't possibly save enough to make a difference. What was that last line, as the man tossed another starfish back into the surf…? "It makes a difference to this one."

Blair smiled at the thought. That's how he’d always felt--any help was better than no help at all. Jim, on the other hand, was willing to put his faith in fate. In the system. _Which is understandable,_ Blair-the-anthropologist reasoned. Jim was a cop. Part of the system. He needed to trust that system or he'd be disillusioned, bitter and burnt out in a matter of years.

On the other hand, Blair had seen Jim get deeply involved in his cases on more than one occasion. It was a dichotomy that Jim chose to ignore, but it bothered Blair that while Jim's crusades were always somehow noble, his were frequently deemed foolhardy.

Blair was pondering this as he came to a rolling stop a couple blocks from where he'd last seen Ian “on the make.” A quick glance to the left and right showed the road to be clear. No sooner had his foot touched the gas pedal, when a loud thud against the side of his car made Blair nearly jump out of his skin.

He glanced around wildly and saw a face practically plastered against the passenger door. A brief flash of recognition was all he caught before the guy took off down the street parallel to the one Blair was traveling on. Seconds later, a dark, heavy body vaulted over the front of the Volvo, sliding along the last foot of hood and continuing down the road at a dead run.

Blair didn't stop to think this time as he stepped on the gas and followed the first running figure. He saw Ian cross the street about a block ahead, still running. He floored it then, passing Ian's pursuer to pull up alongside the kid.

"Get in!"

Ian didn't stop.

"Come on, man, get in! Get in!"

Ian slowed down enough to open the passenger door and throw himself into the still-moving vehicle.

Blair pulled back into the lane and took the first right at speed, not slowing down until he'd made several more turns and they were headed back towards Rainier.

Blair pulled into the parking lot of a 24-hour convenience store, but left the engine running. Turning to his passenger, Blair took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice steady.

"Okay, man, you wanna tell me what that was all about?"

Ian was oozing panic as freely as he was dripping sweat. His eyes were glassy, and his breath was coming in gasps. He kept glancing at Blair and then peering out of the car in all directions. He looked like shit.

Blair felt his reserve softening in the face of the kid's obvious terror.

"Look, whatever it is, I can help. I work with the police, and…"

_Bad move, Sandburg. You just said the magic word._

Blair barely managed to grab the back of Ian's shirt when he tried to bolt. Luckily, the kid was weak, shaky and exhausted enough that he quickly subsided, slumping into the seat in defeat.

Blair tried again. "Look, you didn't let me finish. I'm not *a* cop. I work with them sometimes, and yeah, my roommate's a cop, but he's not in Vice or Narcotics." Ian glowered. Blair grimaced. The smell of the kid in the confines of the car with the heat blasting was almost overwhelming. Blair resisted the urge to open the window, settling instead for turning the heat down to its lowest setting.

Blair sighed. "Let’s try this again. Ian, right?" A terse nod. "I'm Blair. Blair Sandburg, remember? The University?" Another nod accompanied some absentminded scratching of the back of Ian's exposed forearm. Blair saw the needle tracks plainly, but didn't let himself stare. "I just want to help. Please. Now, who the hell was chasing you? What can I do?"

Ian shrugged, still scratching absently at the back of his arm. "Nobody, man. Nothing. Leave it alone." He refused to meet Blair's eyes for very long. "I really need a ride, man. I really have to get to my friend. She's…sick, you know? I have to get back to her."

Blair sighed, noting the pause before "sick" that implied more than a virus was an issue here. "Where's your friend now? I mean, where do you need to go?"

"Forty-sixth and Ticonderoga."

"Jeez, man! That neighborhood sucks on a good day. And Ticonderoga…" Blair's brow wrinkled as he tried to place the street name. "There's nothing on that street but a few warehouses until it runs under the bridge near the rail yard on Forty-Fifth… Shit! Is that where you…where *she* lives?"

"I thought you said you wanted to help, man! You gonna take me or not?" Ian paused for a second before turning towards Blair with a decidedly unpleasant expression. "Unless you want to make me work for it. I don't usually take charity."

Blair recoiled as Ian leaned into his personal space. Licking his lips in a vulgar parody of desire, Ian placed a trembling, black-nailed hand on Blair's upper thigh.

Blair's usually agile mind was a mess of signals, mostly telling him to get the hell out of there. Since it was Blair's car--and Blair's conscience--he settled for pushing Ian away none too gently.

"Forget it, man--I am *so* not buying what you're selling. And I have to tell you, my friend--you are seriously hygienically challenged at the moment."

Ian just smiled, a sickly sweet smile that was anything but, and reached for Blair's. . . * _Shit!_ *

"Whoa!" Blair was out of the car, keys in hand, doing a little dance in the parking lot. "Oh, nonono _no_ , just hold it right there, partner. I said no way, man, and I mean--No. Freaking. Way. You got that? Trust me, kid--you don't want to do this."

"Whassamatter, Mr. Professor?" The kid was stretched along both seats now, head resting on one hand while the fingers of his other continued to dig restlessly at the supporting arm. "Afraid your cop friend's gonna find out?"

Blair was really, really regretting this. He was tired, hungry and wanted nothing but to go home and forget about this goddamned kid. Jim was SO right sometimes--it just didn't pay to get wrapped up in this kind of stuff. With Blair's luck, he'd end up spending the night in lockup for just *looking* at Ian. This was gonna end here.

"Alright, that's it, man. Outta the car." Blair strode around to the passenger side and threw open the door.

Ian's only response was to start sucking suggestively--lewdly--on his index finger.

Blair was thoroughly frazzled. He ran a hand through his hair, giving it a frustrated tug. He knew he could threaten to take the kid to the police station, or call his “cop friend.” He also knew that whoever had been chasing Ian might be more dangerous than some random junkie wanting to score. But in the back of his head, he heard Jim chiding him. “Don’t get involved, Sandburg. You’re not the cavalry, and you’re not going to change the world. Take your own advice and let it go.”

Blair sighed resignedly. Jim was right. He needed to stay detached.

Still blushing a bit from Ian's overt display of sexuality, Blair grabbed the kid's legs where they were now sticking out of the door.

"You need help, buddy," Blair pulled at the leather-clad limbs, "but I guess you're not ready to acknowledge that. So, until you are," another tug moved the kid another couple inches, "you can just get your ass outta my car and go back to. . . to. . . wherever the hell it is you go!"

Another tug and Ian was nearly halfway out of the Volvo. Blair was still pulling, Ian was laughing, and then the laughter was sobbing and the scratching was clawing, and Blair saw the blood soaking into the upholstery from the ugly gashes on Ian's forearm. He supposed Ian saw it, too, because now the kid was gasping for breath, but still digging furiously at his arm like he was going to find something amazing if he could just reach bone.

Blair found himself checking his nausea as the sickly twin odors of warm blood and ill hygiene assaulted him at once.

Ian had slid onto the ground and was half-slumped, half-kneeling beside the car, leaning on the passenger seat and rocking slightly.

"Jesus, man, you have got to stop that! Stop it, already!" Blair dropped to his knees and grabbed the kid’s hands before letting go and pulling away in distaste. Guilt washed over him in palpable waves.

He knew he shouldn't touch the kid--Ian was obviously an IV drug user and a prostitute. Blair's brain churned with the thought of all the bloodborne diseases he could be exposed to if he had an open cut.

In the meantime, a small crowd had gathered in the parking lot around them, and Blair became aware of the fact that the sound of a siren seemed to be getting louder, practically on top of him.

"Oh, god… thank god…"

Blair let himself slump against the open door. Somebody had called the police, no doubt. Someone else would handle this--someone else with latex gloves and professional detachment would take Ian away, clean him up, maybe even dry him out, and set him back on his feet. He rested a hand on Ian's hot, damp back, rubbing gently, shushing him. There was no response, but it didn't matter, really, because it was all going to be okay. Ian would be okay. Blair would be okay. . .

"Chief?"

Blair looked up to see Jim standing alongside them, tall enough to block the glaring streetlight that was making his head hurt. He must have been out, heard the call come through. . .

"Jim. . ."

"What's going on here, Sandburg?" Not hostile--just curious. Competent. Even _patient_ , which wasn't typical Jim, but then, he *was* on the job.

Blair sighed, suddenly weary beyond measure.  He nodded his head in the direction of the kid. "Ian here seems to be having a little.... errr...  Problem.   We could use an ambulance."

"Yeah, I can see that, Chief." Jim was eyeing Ian's damaged arm with detached pity. He didn't take his eyes off the young man as he spoke. "I can hear a siren, but they're a couple minutes away yet." He turned his calm, professional gaze to the teenager. "Damn. He's really doing some damage. I think we need to do something about that, partner."

The last comment, Blair knew, was directed at Ian.

Jim had slipped on a pair of the latex-free surgical gloves he kept in the truck for emergencies. Noting the unique scent of heroin-tainted sweat with distaste, Jim got his cuffs ready and slipped one silver bracelet around the wrist of the occupied hand. Ian was still so intent on his fleshy excavations that he appeared not to notice.

"Easy now, buddy. We're just gonna bring your hands behind your back so you don't hurt yourself." Jim's tone was carefully neutral, slightly soothing. Blair wasn't sure how the cuffs were going to go over, but it ultimately didn't matter--Ian's overworked synapses were no match for Jim's reflexes.

When he realized he'd been restrained, Ian began beating his head against the Volvo’s doorframe.

"Gotta gettem off! Gotta gettem off! Gotta gettem off gettem off gettem off gettem OFF!!!"

Jim simply grabbed the skinny kid by his waistband and hauled him away from the car and onto the pavement. "Easy, pal. Easy. None of that." He leaned over Ian and Blair saw him sniffing cautiously. "He's got drugs on him now, Chief. Might not have sharps, though -- probably the only reason he's not high."

Ian was hyperventilating and trying to get to his feet, a whimpering cry escaping whenever his mutilated arm touched the ground.

The sirens were so close now that Blair's head hurt. Within seconds, they'd pulled up to the Volvo and the crew was on the ground, taking vitals and asking Blair if he knew what the kid was on.

"Probably heroin," Jim supplied. "Has some on him, I think."

The female paramedic frowned. "Wonder why he's in withdrawal when he's got the stuff," she commented as she tried to get a better look at Ian's arm.

She apparently knew Jim, Blair noted, because her next request was, "Ellison, we're gonna need the cuffs off him in a second so we can transport. We're gonna switch to the restraints on the cart. You wanna give us a hand?"

"No problem, Carla. Just say when."

Ignoring the sounds of Ian's struggles and the susurration of the nosy, whispering crowd, Blair contemplated the paramedic's observation. Okay, so Ian was obviously in withdrawal. And if he *did* have drugs on him, why hadn't he used them? Hell, you didn't have to shoot up--there were other methods, so not having needles was irrelevant.

Wait. . . He'd said something about a sick friend. "Sick" meaning really-needing-a-fix-and-unable-to-fend-for-herself, Blair figured. Forty-fifth and Ticonderoga. Shit. The kid hadn't been kidding--he was saving the stuff for the girl.

"Jim, we need to go. He said something about having a friend, in the warehouse district, by the bridge. That stuff was for her, Jim--that's why he didn't use it himself, I know it!"

Blair was vibrating with impatience. They had to get moving if they were going to find her. It was a big enough area full of warehouses and industrial parks--plenty of places for a homeless junkie kid to hole up and die, alone. They had to go--Jim had to come and help Blair find her.

Ian had been loaded onto the ambulance, and Blair hopped into the back, resting a hand on the bony, sweat-soaked shoulder. "I haven't forgotten about your friend, man. We're gonna go get her, and take care of her. You don't have to worry now, okay? Just try to get better."

"Fuck. . .  You." The breathy assault was all Ian could manage. "Gonna. . .  arrest her...  too?"

Jim had obviously been listening, because he appeared at Blair's side in an instant.

"Nobody's arresting anybody, kid. Not yet." He glared at Ian. "But when you're feeling up to it, we're gonna have to get some things straightened out.  Starting with you."  Glancing at Blair, he read the anxiety on his friend's face.  "C'mon, Sandburg. Let’s let them do their job."

Jim pulled Blair out of the ambulance behind him, heading for the truck. "We'll put the light on, Chief. I've already alerted the paramedics that there might be another one, so they'll try to keep a bus in the area for us."

Once they were on the road, Jim made sure to turn on the caution light before stomping on the accelerator.

"Where’re we headed? You said something about the old warehouse district."

"Forty-fifth and Ticonderoga, he said. Man, how are we gonna find her? The place is full of dealers, hookers, the homeless. . . One person is gonna be impossible to pick out, even for you, Jim."

Fretting now, Blair let himself imagine the sight that would greet them if they *did* find this girl. He swallowed harshly, painfully, trying to keep down the lump that rose in his throat.

It wasn't as though he hadn't seen this shit before, growing up with Naomi. Some of the communes were full of people getting high, tripping, OD'd, nearly comatose from withdrawal, drying out, getting off, smoking, shooting and sniffing anything in sight. When he was little it had been scary, but as he got older, it started to seem pretty pathetic.

While Naomi herself eschewed what she considered "destructive" drugs, she made infrequent use of things she considered "consciousness expanding," like psylocybin, peyote and acid. She let Blair sit with her when she did and allowed Blair to make his own decisions. Blair had even used peyote with her a couple of times, but he hadn't felt any desire to use it again.

Still, he didn't condemn his mother for her practices. It was more of a spiritual thing for Naomi--something sacred, usually used in one of her attempts to understand herself or the world around her. Many cultures had similar rituals, and Blair respected that.

People like Ian, though… One some level, Anthropologist Blair understood it. He knew the theories explaining drug abuse in Western cultures. He knew the factors that could drive a teenager from their home and into an often harder, uglier world. If they stayed at home--endured the abuse, watched the fights, the violence and the destruction--they felt like victims. Running away gave them a feeling of control, even while it quietly stripped them of it.

But Blair-the-human-being didn't care about any of that. He could hardly imagine feeling so low--so debased--that putting poison in your veins was a preferable alternative.

Jim had been making an effort to leave Blair alone with his thoughts, concentrating instead on driving. Now that they were nearing their destination, however, Jim needed Blair's help if they were going to find the girl.

"Sandburg. We're here."

Blair didn't move, seemingly lost in thought.

"Chief?" Jim raised his voice a bit.

Blair jumped, shaking his head to clear it. "Sorry, Jim. Just thinking."

"I know. Come on, let's find her. This isn't somewhere we wanna hang out, if you know what I mean."

They got out of the truck, shutting and locking the doors. Jim was already looking around warily, his senses allowing him to scan the area for any immediate danger.

"Looks pretty quiet. What do you say we start with the first building on the block, and go from there?"

"Works for me. Do you think you could, you know, smell her?"

Jim frowned.

"Don't think so, Chief." He allowed a small, tight smile. "Like a bloodhound, you know? You've gotta give me something to go on. A baseline. As it is… this place just stinks."

"Okay, you're right, you're right…" Blair ran nervous fingers through his hair. "But how about hearing, Jim? If she's sick, you know, her heartbeat could be really slow. Irregular." Blair was getting excited now. "You could try to sort through the heartbeats, filter out the normal ones, or something."

Jim was eyeing the first large industrial factory warily while Blair spoke.

"Worth a try, Chief, but don't get your hopes up. There's probably hundreds of homeless in these buildings alone--not to mention the rail yard and the tent city under the bridge. One irregular heartbeat in hundreds--and plenty of those are probably sick, drunk or high--is nothing to hang your hat on."

"I know, I know, man. But just try, please?" Placing a hand on Jim's arm, Blair used his most soothing voice while talking Jim through the tedious process of sorting through the myriad heartbeats that reverberated in his ears. Whenever Jim found one that sounded "wrong", he'd piggyback smell on hearing, searching for the recently encountered scent of opiate-tainted sweat. Drunk after drunk, the aged, the malnourished, but no female heroin user.

After almost twenty minutes during which they had walked about a block and explored four buildings, Jim heard an alarmingly soft, erratic rhythm. "I've got another one, Chief."

"That's great, Jim! Can you tell where it's coming from?"

Jim concentrated for a couple seconds, letting the vibrations of sound wash over him. Following the direction they came from, he turned and allowed smell to tag along. A familiar odor met his nostrils. Adding sight to the senses he was extending, Jim's vision fixed on a figure lying on a filthy mattress and covered in a pile of dirty fabric and newspaper. Sweat covered her shaking form, her skin was bluish and her breathing was almost non-existent.

Jim snapped back to himself with a shake of his head, grateful for Sandburg's steadying hand on his arm.

"Got her, Chief. Call for an ambulance--there should be one in about 10 blocks south. I'll bring her out."

"How is she, Jim? Is she okay?" Blair didn't want to slow Jim down, but. . .

"She's breathing." He was already to the door of the warehouse. "Call, Chief. I'll be right back."

Blair took out his cell phone, hands shaking, and dialed 911. There was, as Jim had said, an ambulance in the area.

Shifting from foot to foot, Blair waited for the paramedics to arrive.

His heart was pounding in his ears, and he felt sick with fear and worry. It felt like Jim had been gone forever, but it was just minutes later that his partner emerged from the building, cradling a still, thin, child-sized body in his arms.

"Shit, Jim! Put her down, man, right here. Is she okay?" Blair took his coat off and placed it under the girl's head as Jim set her gently down on the sidewalk. She was barely thirteen--if that--and she looked horrible. Her once-brown hair was thick and heavy with oil and grime. Her pale skin was bluish, arms stamped with a kaleidoscopic collection of bruises. The shaking and sweating was heartbreaking, but the worst had to be the soft whimpers that escaped whenever Blair tried to touch her.

He tried to soothe her the only way he could think of.

"Hey, it's okay. Ian sent us. Ian. Remember? He was. . . he was getting something for you, but he couldn't get back here, so he sent us to find you."

She breathed harder at the mention of Ian's name. It was all she could do to speak, but she choked out a, "Where?" between pitifully shallow breaths.

Blair must have looked lost, because Jim broke in, relieving Blair's guilty confusion.

"He's staying with a friend right now, kiddo. He sent us to get you. He got what you need, you just have to let us take care of you, okay?"

She didn't respond, but Blair could see that she was still breathing.

"Jim? Are they coming?"

"Yeah. They're on their way, Chief."

Jim sat back on his heels and watched Blair fussing over the girl. It was sad, really. She'd probably never remember this--never appreciate how much someone had cared for her in what was, in all likelihood, the lowest moment in her life.  _If she makes it_ , he thought grimly.

Blair was stroking her filthy hair, holding her hand and talking to her in that soft, gentle voice that always made Jim feel calm and relaxed. Jim didn't need his senses to see that Blair was having the same effect on the child. _No surprise there_ , Jim thought. He could hear the things Blair was saying, and it almost brought tears to his eyes.

Blair had knelt down behind the child and lifted her head and shoulders onto his thighs. She'd calmed enough to allow the contact, and Jim watched as Blair shifted her higher into his arms and rocked her gently. "It's okay. Shhhhh. You're alright, honey, you're alright. I'm sorry we didn't bring him with use--I'm sorry you were alone so long. I know it hurts, but we're gonna take care of you. You didn't do anything wrong, nobody's going to hurt you."

The sirens were approaching them for the second time that night, but the girl was too far gone to care, or too lost in Blair's murmured reassurances to think about what it might mean. Blair seemed equally oblivious.

Once the ambulance pulled up next to them, it was all over in a matter of minutes. The girl was gently but firmly removed from Blair's arms, examined, loaded on the bus and whisked away before Blair had a chance to take it all in.

He was kneeling on the sidewalk and clutching his coat when Jim laid a gentle hand on his partner's shoulder.

"Come on, Sandburg. Truck."

Blair didn't look up, just continued to stare at the point where the ambulance lights had vanished from sight.

"She's gonna be okay, right? I mean, withdrawal looks bad, and all, but it looks a lot worse than it is… Doesn't it?"

Jim sighed. "Come on, stand up, Chief." Jim pulled Blair to his feet and herded him toward the truck. "Yeah, it usually does look worse than it is, buddy. I think she'll be fine."

"I feel like shit here, Jim." Guilt and misery tinged the quiet words. "I wasn't too nice to Ian, and I almost didn't go after. . . Shit, Jim, I don't even know her name!"

Jim was uncomfortable, but he tried to think about how Blair must have felt tonight. Jim had worked Vice, and Narcotics. He'd seen plenty of kids like this. Hell, it was part of the reason he'd gotten out of that department.

He smiled a bit to himself, thinking about how Sandburg would react if he knew just how many times Jim’d had some fucked up kid in his truck, or even at the loft, trying to do the right thing.

Yeah, Jim had danced this dance before, and it was never graceful. It's hard to be when you're trying to keep two people on their feet instead of one.

And really, he knew exactly why Blair felt guilty. Sandburg was a sensitive person. He felt everything, felt for everyone, and it couldn't have been easy for him to deal with a kid like Ian. Addicts are tough to help. Jim thought that they pushed people away on purpose, sometimes, just so they wouldn't have to worry about disappointing anyone but themselves. They hit you where it hurts, push all your buttons, and could try the patience of a saint.

And, understandably, Blair had snapped. He'd let the kid get to him, lost his temper, and now he felt like shit.

"Look, Sandburg," Jim said quietly, "I know how things probably went down, and I just want to tell you I understand. It's not easy. I’ve been doing this shit a long time, remember? I've seen a lot over the years, Chief, and I know that whatever happened, you did the best you could."

"Jim, man, you weren't there. You don't know how I acted."

"I know that kid was probably trying to set you off. Push me-pull you kinda stuff. It's standard operating procedure for junkies, Sandburg. They're some of the neediest people you're ever gonna meet, and they're the least able to take what they *really* need. Give them money, drugs, crash space. . .no problem. But the minute you try to give them a hand out of the life, forget it."

"He was prostituting himself, Jim. He threw himself at me." The sadness in Blair's voice overwhelmed the anger. "He wanted to trade. . .you know. . ." Blair gestured vaguely toward his groin, "for a ride to that warehouse."

Blair ran a hand through his hair. "He wasn't taking no for an answer, and it freaked me out.  I mean, he's just a *kid,* Jim!  So I was trying to get him out of the car--told him to go the hell back to wherever he came from." He paused. "That's when I saw his arm. What he was doing to his arm."

"I've seen that before, Chief. He knew he had to save the shit he had for the girl, so he wasn't going to get high anytime soon. Probably scored some coke thinking it would take the edge off.  He was scratching the Coke bugs, the crawlies, whatever you want to call it.  Users, addicts... they can't control the screwed up sensory input, and start thinking there's something moving around under their skin." Jim shivered. "I know how that must feel."

"What's going to happen to them?" There was no hint of hope in Blair's question.

"Well, if they're over eighteen--which definitely isn’t the case where the girl’s concerned--they'll be treated like adults and either forced into rehab or dry out in jail. Juveniles could go one of two ways--if they can’t find the kid’s family, the state steps in and either remands them to a facility for juvenile offenders, or, if a social worker decides they stand a chance in a rehab, they might end up in treatment."

The slump of Blair's shoulders made Jim's sag in sympathy. He wanted to say something more positive, more hopeful, but that just wasn't the way it worked out.

"They could *both* end up in rehab, you know. There's no proof that Ian was tricking, and the girl didn't have anything on her. It's possible that they'll be treated as non-violent offenders and walk with parole and continuing addiction counseling. Besides, they're hospitalized now. The doctors will probably recommend counseling and rehab, too."

Blair had a determined look that Jim knew meant trouble.

"I want to see them."

Jim sighed. "I don’t think that's a good idea, Sandburg."

"I *need* to see them, Jim. I want to go home, and I'm beat, but I won't be able to relax until I know they're okay."

Jim said nothing, just flipped on the turn signal and moved the truck to the left lane, turning at the next light and heading for Cascade General.

Blair smiled tiredly. "Thanks."

* * *

Jim's detective status came in handy yet again, when the nurse refused to allow Blair into Ian's room. Jim flashed his badge, claiming the need to ask the kids some questions.

The doctor showed up just then and provided a brief rundown on their conditions. Both were stable, but the girl--whose name turned out to be Kate--had contracted hepatitis somewhere along the way. It was going to be hard on her.

Blair nodded his understanding throughout the recitation of ailments, promised not to tire them, and followed Jim into Ian's room.

He was obviously sleeping, and Jim seemed loath to wake him. Blair approached the bedside tentatively, lowering himself into a nearby chair and staring at the now peaceful face.

"Jesus, Jim. He looks about fifteen."

Blair was right. The kid looked deceptively angelic, lying there with his head on the thin hospital pillow, long, dark hair freshly washed and fanned out around his pale face.

Blair sat another second before seeming to come to a decision. "Come on, Jim."

He stood and left the room without a backward glance, heading for Kate's room down the hall.

This time, it was Jim who first approached the bed. When he'd lifted her off that mattress and she'd stirred, pushing feebly at his chest mumbling something like "No, not again," it was all he'd been able to do to keep his knees from buckling through the rush of anger that washed over him.

He hadn't told Blair, though--it was her secret to tell. But he knew it now and he was not going to shirk his responsibility.

He'd shushed her with nonsense, and she'd sagged against him. It was all he could do to take her out to the street, to the ambulance and the clinical, detached professionals who would process her, sanitize her, clean her up and possibly even spit her back on the street in a few weeks, months, whatever.

She'd just run from a foster home. Hell, that could be what she's running from now. It wouldn't make a difference--she'd be back on the smack within weeks. Most of them were.

Or worse yet, they'd put her on Methadone. That shit was a joke. It was more addictive than heroin, and they kept you on it forever. And Methadone withdrawal was ten times more likely to kill you than heroin withdrawal. It was an industry, not a cure.

Jim had just wanted to take her home--to take her away, get her out of the system and break the cycle, somehow. He could hire a doctor, lock her the hell up and let her sweat it out. Blair would help. They could do it. It could work.

When he'd laid her on the ground and let Sandburg take over, it had been tough to let go.

Now, as he watched her, clean and sleeping, he felt sick. He felt like knew where it was going to end, but he didn't have it in him to tell Sandburg. Blair looked like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders already, just for having seen them. He was at Kate's side now, one hand resting briefly, lightly against the skinny forearm. She, too, had been cleaned up, her hair still slightly damp but infinitely less lank than it had been only a couple hours before. If she’d looked young then, she looked even younger now--perhaps 10, at the most.

Jim waited patiently, trying not to let himself think about anything of importance. This was about Blair, now.

Finally, Blair was ready to go. Jim followed him back to the truck, driving to the loft in silence while Blair rattled on about what a relief it must be for Jim to know he'd narrowly avoided Blair bringing Ian home, and wouldn't that have sucked?

"See, Jim? I've been hearing you, man, I've been hearing what you've said about trying to save everyone, getting too involved, and I just want to thank you for not giving me a hard time about this. I know you're probably pissed off, but thanks for not ripping me one tonight--I couldn't have handled it. I tried, Jim--I really tried to do it your way, and I couldn't. Now, I kinda wish I had."

"What are you talking about, Sandburg?"

"I'm talking about this whole mess with Ian. I never told you because you're always telling me not to get involved in things--to let the pros handle it. I met him weeks ago, and I saw him later, on the street. I thought he was dealing, or something, so I followed him, and he was. . . well. . . selling himself. And I remembered what you said, and I left it alone. Just went back to the car and left."

Looking at his hands where they rested in his lap, Blair picked at a nail before he continued, more quietly than before.

"And I have to tell you, Jim, I felt like shit, but I think, now, that it was probably the righ. . . "

"Sandburg," Jim interrupted. "Just hear me out for a minute, okay?"

Blair frowned, but motioned for Jim to continue.

"When I was in Vice, I did more than just *see* this shit, Chief. I got involved. *Very* involved."

"Um. . . just how involved is *involved*, Jim?"

"*Involved* involved, Sandburg. I was spending most of my down time on the streets, trying to get the youngest into the shelters in the winter, trying to get them to trust me, to get off the shit for long enough to get clean and get a job, anything to sober them up. I had a kid stay with me, once. He'd been a snitch of mine for awhile, and when I couldn't find him one night, I went looking."

"Long story short, he was almost gone by the time I found him. OD'd. I might as well have put the shit in his veins myself."

"Why is it your fault?"

"Staying with me gave him extra money. He bought more shit than he'd probably ever had at one time."

"God, Jim! I'm so sorry, man. I had no idea! I mean, you always seem so detached…"

"Yeah, well, looks can be deceiving."

"So, what's really going to happen to them?"

"Hard to say for sure, Chief, but one way or the other, the statistics say they'll be back on the streets and back on the shit within a few weeks of returning to an unsupervised lifestyle. And that's if they don't go on Methadone maintenance. If they get started on that stuff, well. . . " Jim shrugged. "Long term use is harder on the body than heroin, and the chances of dying if you try to get clean from it are higher than heroin detox." Jim sighed again. "I have to tell you, Sandburg--it doesn't look good."

"So, what do we do?"

Jim smiled at his partner. "You're keeping your distance real well, there."

"Come on, Jim! You can't tell me something like that and expect me to sit on my hands!"

Jim laughed. "You'd last all of five seconds if you tried that, Darwin--you know you can't talk without them."

"Ha, ha. Very funny. Now, tell me what we're gonna do about this."

"Not a whole lot we *can* do. We can go to their hearings--try to get the judge to go easy on them. We can ask Simon to talk to the DA's office, try to get them to ask for leniency. It just needs to play itself out, Chief. I know it sucks," Jim interrupted Blair's outraged rebuttal, "but that's they way it goes."

"I hear you, Jim." Blair sighed. "Let's wait and see."

 

* * *

Five months later. . .

Jim and Blair sat in Jim's truck, watching as several teenagers lounged around the yard of a large, neat house. Ian was among them, sitting on a picnic table with his feet on the bench, laughing. Kate was there also, sitting on the bench at Ian's feet, picking at the toe of her sneaker.

They'd gained weight, Blair noticed with relief, and were both wearing clean, new clothes.

"What do you think, Chief?"

"They look. . . they look happy, Jim." Blair smiled. "They look okay."

"Better than jail, right?"

"Way better. It might be a halfway house, but it's still a home, you know?"

Jim shifted on his seat, leaning a bit to the right so he watch as the teens disappeared into the back yard. "I know."

Blair smiled as one short kid thwacked another in the head with an acorn. "Hey, Jim? What are they talking about?"

Dialing up, Jim let the voices wash over him. A rush of words assailed him and he tried to pick out the vaguely familiar voices.

"Music, mostly. . . So-and-so's a jerk. . . Why it sucks to have clean-up duty on lasagna night. . ." Jim grinned. Typical kid stuff, bitching about cleaning their rooms and taking out the garbage. It was good.

Blair also cracked a grin at the mundane nature of the conversation. "Lasagna, huh? That actually sounds pretty good, man."

"Your turn to cook, Chief."

"Uh. . . on second thought, Jim, pizza is also traditional Italian fare, you know?"

Jim smiled passively at his partner. "You're buying."


End file.
